


"One Man Out"

by The_Will_Blair



Category: TV - Fandom, The Walking Dead
Genre: Cliffhanger, Gen, Lucille - Freeform, Negan - Freeform, Original Characters - Freeform, Zombie Apocalypse, saviors, season 6 finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 06:20:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6893563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Will_Blair/pseuds/The_Will_Blair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wanted to have a little fun and write my own fictional account surrounding the final scene of Season 6 that could complement the cliffhanger. I live near where much of the show's filming takes place (not that it really matters here). Please enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"One Man Out"

From his vantage point in the woods – after hours trekking back and forth all day and into night – an exhausted Braille wipes the nervous sweat from his brown forehead and anxiously observes the morality play unfolding before him.

The woods are eerily silent, broken only by the calculated warnings of Preacher Man, the bitter refrains of the recruits and, of course, his own shallow breath. Even though he's seen it all before – even remembers when he was born again unto Preacher Man following the Resurrection – he nevertheless is uneasy, knowing the numbers are in their favor no matter whoever or whatever may enter their temporary outdoor pulpit.

Braille's attention is diverted when, alongside him, Rat Eye breaks protocol, pulling a granola bar from his front pocket and attempting to open the chewy goodness one-handed. Rat Eye's own exhaustion and lack of coordination prolongs the moment, however, and the wrapper makes as much noise to Braille under the ceremonial circumstances as a dinner bell ringing on an open range.

Jesus, Braille thinks to himself. How can the sharpshooter eat with so much drama unfolding in front of them? At least hurry the hell up. Waiting on Rat Eye to snack at this very moment is like sitting in a movie theater during the old days and waiting for the jerk behind you to finish masticating his popcorn and slurping his Slurpee.

Braille tries to remember the last film he saw in a movie theater. Probably an action movie; the old Braille used to like action movies. During his teenage years, that's all that was any good. Schwarzenegger. Stallone. Van Damme. Even Seagal was pretty good, if you could get past the ponytail. Ponytails are a terrible grooming choice if you know you're in for a fight, Braille thinks. Too much leverage for the opponent.

As he shifts from one aching leg to the other, he recalls watching an MMA fight where the experienced Brazilian lost to some Asian who kept hold of a handful of his glorious brunette mane and made the South American eat stretched canvas for five rounds.

Thus, Braille keeps his hairline high and tight. Close-quarter combat is the norm.

Rat Eye belches after consuming his snack in two quick ravenous bites. It had taken longer to open the granola bar.

"Quit making so much noise," Braille whispers. "You know he doesn't like to be interrupted."

"I don't give a crap," the short Canadian answers irritably and far less quietly. "I'm hungry, and we've seen all this before. They'll be initiated like all the others, and after the day I've had, I need another snack and then some sleep."

Braille ignores his narcissistic companion and turns his attention again to the stage. He knows something is different this time; nothing feels right. When he had been saved so long ago, he'd been relieved. No more fear. No more sleepless nights. No more fighting against a somber and gray world alone.

But something about tonight is unsettling. At attention nearby, Joseph, Leonard the Bastard and Slim are all in standard attention, more so than the apathetic Rat Eye, but clearly not as disturbed as Braille.

When saving the lost, Preacher Man always paces with a purpose that reinforces his steely resolve and charismatic message, Braille observes, which is good. They say movement keeps everyone's attention – for the most part.

Rat Eye may not care, but the potential initiates clearly do. They're hanging on every word, as well they should. It's not in one's best interest – regardless of one's background or beliefs – to dismiss the promise of salvation and survival that Preacher Man offers, though he rarely carries a Bible.

The only alternative is darkness. Preacher Man’s light or true darkness.

Braille wonders what his wife would say if she were still alive and they were together. He'd lost her during the early days of the Resurrection. Maria, the light of his first life. The only ghost whose distant memory trumps the immediacy of Preacher Man's disturbing sermon.

She used to drink raspberry herbal tea and read mysteries. He had loved the way she rubbed her feet together while she was falling asleep. The intimate things haunted him even now. The way she bounded into his embrace when he came through the door. The squint and smirk she used to give him when she didn't believe one of his good-natured, fanciful tales of outdoor adventure. When they were intimate, she was not one to put on a pornographic performance; no, Maria simply sighed gently and pulled him in tightly.

Braille shifts uneasily.

He and his wife had spent many romantic evenings sitting in the back yard, quietly admiring the flames of a chiminea fire and drinking their wine. They would take turns choosing music for the evening.

"Jazz again?" he recalls mockingly asking once again on an October evening. It was their inside joke. While he played all types of genres during those outdoor dalliances, she never strayed from Thelonius Monk or Art Blakely or John Coltrane. It was her way. He never tried to change her, nor she him.

"Jazz again?"

She would give him that wry grin of hers, her kinky chestnut hair bouncing around as she shook her head.

"You'll get your turn," she had always answered.

He never minded. She loved jazz more than he'd liked any other form of music. And if she was happy, he was happy.

For Braille, the warm, liquid memory of love can often be too much. Whenever he gets lost in the past with his Maria for too long – her face twisting in agony as she succumbed to the jaws of death – eventually resurfaces. It used to drive him mad, those reminders of the paradise he'd lost and his inability to stop the world from changing.

But the Resurrection also had changed him. And Preacher Man had come along at the right time, molding him into something stronger. Something that could survive the afterworld.

"You wouldn't recognize me now," he says softly to Maria's memory. "I'm different. I'm so damn different. Music no longer has any meaning."

"Who's preoccupied now, asshole?" Rat Eye snarls, shifting closer and breaking Braille’s connection with his past. "Say, you got a granola?"

In the clearing, on his temporary stage, Preacher Man raises his voice ever so slightly. Braille knows what's next. They all see it coming. But something still doesn't seem. It's in the air, he thinks. In the stale, repugnant air.

Speaking to new recruits – to anyone, really – comes naturally to Preacher Man. He was reborn for these moments of grandiosity. As alway, he speaks with eloquence and a calm fervor. His words echo in the woods. He talks of a new order, of redemption. And vengeance.

He admonishes those gathered on their knees like a father would… just before disciplining his naughty child. Like Braille, those gathered offstage already have been initiated under similar circumstances. If not in the woods, in a tent. Or in an abandoned railroad car, a jail, a barn, a boarded-up metropolitan building. As always, Braille acknowledges, Preacher Man's words are convincing and undeniable, like any old-world preacher during sinister times.

Braille again shifts uneasily as Preacher Man begins talking of sacrifice.

He understands that, tonight, there most definitely will be a sacrifice. Not so much an eye for an eye, for none of them would survive that judgment. More of a deadly slap on the wrist.

The recruits will immediately learn one harsh truth: It is Preacher Man's way and NO highway. That they are sinners in the hands of an angry Savior.

But with their gnashing of teeth, the Knights of the Hidden City – as Braille and a few of his closest soldiers call them – will once again demonstrate how rebellious they are in their ignorant and tenacious need for a fight.

The Knights have dared to interfere with the harmony Preacher Man has worked hard to establish, assaulting an outpost and killing dozens. They have brought this upon themselves.

Everyone gathered in the woods knows the Knights’ aggression will have consequences. Preacher Man has to teach them a lesson, to set an example. There have been too many losses already. Earlier today, Braille lost his bunk mate to a lone traveling Knight. Ten of the recruits tonight will learn to submit, according to Preacher Man, just as everyone else has. But to deliver the message – to really send it home – one of them will have to die.

Yes, Braille thinks, action must be taken. Words simply are never enough in the times of the Resurrection.

From man to woman to child, the recruits’ responses range from terror to courage. Braille holds his breath and watches as Preacher Man concludes his speech with an unmelodious nursery rhyme and eyes the sacrifice with a mixture of contempt and admiration.

For a moment, Braille wonders whether true darkness would be better, recalling Maria's sweet smile.

With no further preamble, Preacher Man raises his rusty Slugger, a sporting relic of the old world, and begins delivering blow upon deadly blow to the head of his chosen sacrifice.

Bloodied, no longer defiant, the unrecognizable Knight crumples to the soft earth amid the embittered cries of the remaining recruits.

Slain. The message has been delivered.

So, too, Braille notices, the air has shifted.


End file.
